This afternoon, I tuned in for what history might someday call Trump’s real inaugural address. Not the pomp and circumstance of the first one, but the raw, unvarnished spectacle of a man addressing the crowd he believes crowned him king. It wasn’t a speech. It was a sermon—a rambling, self-indulgent litany of grievances, each punctuated by applause from his faithful congregation.

But the real performance wasn’t on the stage. No, it was standing just behind him, trapped in the shadow of Trump’s towering ego: JD Vance.

Oh, JD. There you were, forced into the role of background prop, a man who knows he’s part of the show but wishes to God he wasn’t. From the moment the cameras caught your face, it was clear—this wasn’t admiration. It was endurance. The tight smile, the squinting eyes, the clapping on cue like a marionette with strings pulled too tight. If Trump was the star, JD was the applause monkey, dancing for a crowd that didn’t care if he wanted to be there or not.

And Trump, as always, couldn’t resist using him. “And JD—my guy JD—he knows what we’re fighting for!” Every time Trump said his name, JD had to light up like the world’s most miserable Christmas tree. He laughed at the bad jokes, nodded at the empty platitudes, and clapped like his life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.

But oh, the cracks in the facade were glorious. Every chuckle felt more forced than the last, every clap a little less enthusiastic. By the time Trump started rambling about windmills or something equally absurd, JD’s smile looked like it was being held in place with duct tape and sheer willpower. This is what I’ve become, you could almost hear him think. An applause monkey. The bitch in the background.

And Trump? He was loving every second of it. He kept throwing JD’s name into the speech, pulling him further into the spotlight. “JD knows. JD’s a fighter!” It wasn’t just a rally—it was a public hazing. Trump wasn’t elevating JD. He was reminding him of his place.

The irony was delicious. Here was JD, a man who’d written the book—literally—on the struggles of middle America, standing behind the man who turned those struggles into a carnival sideshow. You could see it in JD’s eyes: This should have been me. Not him. Me. And he wasn’t wrong. JD’s the one with the credentials, the one with a future. Trump is just the ghost of elections past, clinging to relevance by dragging everyone around him down into his swamp.

But ambition is a funny thing. It doesn’t let you walk away, even when you want to. So JD stood there, clapping and nodding, playing the role of loyal soldier while silently plotting his next move. Because that’s the game, isn’t it? You don’t take the king’s crown by storming the castle. You wait. You bide your time. And when the king stumbles, you step in—not as the usurper, but as the savior.

Still, watching him today, you had to wonder: How much longer can he keep this up? How many more speeches, how many more forced smiles, how many more humiliations will it take before JD finally snaps? Because if there was one thing clear from today’s performance, it’s this: JD doesn’t admire Trump. He pities him.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. For all his bluster and bravado, Trump doesn’t even realize that the man clapping behind him isn’t cheering for him. He’s waiting for him to fail. JD knows the end is coming. He just has to survive long enough to pick up the pieces.

So yes, call this Trump’s real inaugural address. A spectacle of fading power and forced loyalty, with JD Vance standing in the background as both victim and accomplice. And for one afternoon, it was the best show in politics.